The Stuffed Saboteur
by Cutethulhu
Summary: Sniper could swear on the bones of every hideous, mutated wild animal he had ever hunted that sometime during the night that scarecrow had gotten closer. Late Halloween fic for all to enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

Oooookay, so here's the deal; I originally had this all planned out to be released on Halloween but because I am a piece of shit, I didn't finish it until the day after. And then I had some good friends of mine beta for me and here we are. Happy Halloween and sorry for the huge-ass delay I guess?

* * *

It was closer than it was yesterday.

Under the burning October sun it stood, propped up knee-deep in an autumnal sea of dying corn just… _existing_.

And Sniper could swear on the bones of every hideous, mutated wild animal he had ever hunted that sometime during the night that bloody scarecrow had gotten closer.

The rational side of his mind reasoned that it was just another one of Scout's stupid pranks. It was, after all, his idea to make a scarecrow out of the RED Spy's suit which he had pilfered on a whim during battle. It hadn't really done a good job keeping the crows away, if the fruitless brown stalks and its now tattered shoulders were anything to go by, so the kid must have been using it for kicks, now. It'd explain why he always looked so tired in the morning. Sniper grumbled something incoherent to himself and moved to the other side of the roof to face the empty battlefield.

However, even with it out of sight, the Australian felt as if the scarecrow- or "spycrow", as Scout insisted everyone call it- was watching him with its black, beady button eyes. Every dry wind sent rustling through the cornfield had Sniper craning his neck to make sure the spyc- _scarecrow _was staying put.

"Creepy old bugger…" Sniper muttered under his breath as he climbed into the second-story window of the farmhouse his team was stationed at. One perk about being a BLU was that their bases were generally better equipped than the RED team's, but it seemed that this time around the only thing setting the two farmhouses apart were walls made of either flimsy old metal or flimsy old wood.

Either way, as soon as it was nighttime, it became one hell of a miserable experience.

The creaking of Sniper's boots upon the wooden floor were drowned out by a sudden shout and the sound of a stack of something toppling over. He followed the sound downstairs into the living room where Pyro and Demoman were. Demoman had fallen over a pile of wooden planks of varying shapes, a slick black splotch staining his vest and shirt.

Pyro chuckled as he stuck his glove back into a canister of black paint and flung some at the fallen explosives expert. His own suit sported similar spots of paint. To the side of the fireplace, a few wooden gravestones leaned against the wall, painted phrases like "R.I.P GUARD DOG" and so on running slightly as they dried.

"Halloween decorations?" Sniper asked.

"Pyro 'n I figured this miserable little shack could use somethin' to keep everyone's spirits up," Demoman staggered as he stood up, keeping one hand on the mantle of the fireplace and another close to his alcohol. A day off spent sober was a day off wasted.

Sniper hunched over, hands in his pockets as he looked at the mock tombstones.

"Zepheniah Mann, huh?"

"The grumpy ol' coot who owned all this land in the first place, god rest his soul," Demoman said, rearranging the blank planks he had tripped over and then knocking on the wooden mantle for superstition's sake. When Sniper's back was turned he cast a look at Pyro, who held the paint behind his back innocently and motioned.

"Gotta thank the bloke fer one thing; our payche- _AGHH!_" Sniper all but squawked as the remaining black paint was haphazardly dumped on him, Sniper snatched the emptied canister and swatted at the Pyro with the last of the paint clinging to the inside before Demoman caught him in a headlock from behind, smearing what paint on his person that hadn't already dried on the sharpshooter, "You bloody bastards!"

* * *

The sun was low on the horizon, just barely dipping behind the endless expanse of thirsty farmland when Sniper stepped out of the bathhouse. For whatever reason, BLU was benevolent enough to have fully functional showers and latrines built to accommodate the team, but not so much as to have them built into the main house or renovate said house so that it was no longer the equivalent to camping out in a barn. Hell, even glass on the windows would have been a huge improvement.

A chill wind was beginning to pick up in preparation for the cold, clear night that was sure to follow the vibrant orange and vermillion sunset. Sniper stretched and scratched at the largest paint stain left on his vest. It had dried while he showered all the paint that had gotten all over his neck and back. He could get a spare from his van later, but he ought to stay game just in case anyone else wanted to start some seasonal shenanigans.

The Australian opened his mouth to yawn when a distant, muffled _crunch_ put him on guard. The marksman shielded his eyes from the light of the sinking sun and peered at the farmhouse where the rest of the BLU team had assembled for an early dinner of tomato soup. The crunch had come from the far side of the farmhouse.

Where the corn field was.

Sniper began to approach the side slowly, fingering his SMG in its holster. Peering around the corner, his breath caught in his throat.

The spycrow was gone.

The breeze whistling through the corn buzzed in his ears and his heartbeat pulsated through his bones as he stared dumbly at the space the spycrow was supposed to occupy. It had to be some kind of joke. It had to be, yet Sniper felt almost terrified. All reason seemed to be lost when those soulless black buttons came to mind.

As if he was on auto-pilot, Sniper stepped over the wooden fence and began to walk through the field, boots dragging in the dirt. The dying stalks felt itchy as they brushed against his arms. He scratched them absentmindedly and pushed on. The further Sniper advanced into the corn, the more he wondered if he had somehow gotten himself lost or not. He was tall, but the unkempt crops surrounding him gave him a run for his money. He could hardly see over their tips. Someone like Engineer could go in here and never be seen again. Sniper was about to snicker at the thought but stopped short when he noticed a familiar black glove on the ground.

The spycrow had simply fallen over.

Sniper wasn't sure if he should be relieved or disturbed by it as he was per usual. It was a lot more lifelike than he remembered it to be. Where did Scout even learn to sew like this?

"Might as well fix it," Sniper bent over and picked the spycrow up by the wooden post it was fastened to and, with a grunt, shoved it back into the ground. He then piled dirt around it in a mound to keep it in place with his shoe. "That ought ta do it."

No sooner did he speak did hands clamp down on his shoulders out of the blue.

"BOO!"

"BLOODY FUCK!" Sniper exclaimed, jolting out of his assailant's grasp and into the spycrow, toppling it back over with another crunch.

"My god, lad, I really got ya this time aroond!"the Demoman laughed, hands on his knees. Sniper scowled.

"Yeah, yeah, you got me alroight. Gimme a hand, will ya?"

"Sure, mate," Demoman offered his hand to the Sniper and helped him up with he took it.

"How'd ya know I wos out here?" the Australian asked, dusting his jeans off.

"Never seen an ear o' corn wear an akubra before."

"Fair 'nough," Sniper turned around to correct the spycrow once more.

"Ya went all the way oot here ta fix that thing?"

"Somebody ought ta. I personally can't stand not bein' able to see where it is."

"Then ye should put a sack o'er its head. If nothin' else, those eyes are bleedin' unsettlin'."

"Ya think so too?"

"Can't think o' a man on th' team who doesn't."

Sniper looked at the now upright spycrow.

"Wot was Scout thinkin' when he made this thing?" he asked.

"Scoot thinks?" Demoman asked, faking surprise. The two mercenaries laughed at the runner's expense and began to make their way back to the farmhouse through the corn.

In the distance, a murder of crows cawed forlornly.


	2. Chapter 2

It was now the middle of the night and Sniper found himself getting more and more uncomfortable in his tangle of bed sheets by the minute. There was a low scraping noise outside that seemed to count the seconds as they slipped by into the night. It was probably just a tree against one of the buildings, but try as he might, Sniper couldn't ignore it and get the shut eye he so badly wanted. As the scrapes dragged subtly through the air, Sniper tossed and turned and eventually, after getting his toe caught in a small hole in the fabric for the umpteenth time, he tossed his sheets into a heap on the floor of his van and sat up. The cold air hit the sweat on his back and he shivered.

_Thump thump thump._

There was somebody at the door.

"At this hour?" Sniper groaned as he hopped off his cot, lightly shaking the van. The thumping increased in urgency. "I'm comin', I'm comin. Jus' lemme get some trousers on."

The camper door squaked as he opened it, causing his already edgy visitor to jump.

"Scout?" Sniper asked groggily, "Wo t are you doin' still up?"

"H-Hey man, wassup?"Scout said, "I didn't wake ya, did I?"

"Nah, I wos already up," Sniper said.

"So you've been hearin' it too, den?" Scout stepped forward eagerly, causing Sniper to jolt back slightly, "Cool! Dat means I ain't imaginin' stuff! Well, dat's also not cool too, I mean, it's not cool 'cause I don't know what the hell's causin' it but cool 'cause I ain't turnin' into a lunatic like Soldier! You get what I mean?"

"Scout, it's too late to be hearin' ya run your mouth off," Sniper yawned, but decided to humor him, "What'm I supposed ta be hearin'?"

"Dat weird scratchy-scrapin' noise!"

Sniper looked at Scout incredulously.

"Is that wot's gotcha all twitchy? Chroist, it's prolly jus' the tree branhes around here scratchin' against stuff. Go back ta bed."

"Wait!" Sniper made to close the door but Scout jammed his foot in the way, "Engie already clipped all the trees back last week 'cause a' dat!"

Sniper begrudgingly reopened the door. "Come again?"

"None a' the trees are even close ta the buildin's anymore. It's gotta be somethin' else!"

Sniper crossed his arms, feeling the hairs that stood on end in the cold.

"Wot is it, then?"

"I… I dunno."

"You don't know?"

"Well no, but I mean, I got a good guess!"

"Yeah? Let's hear it."

Scout leaned in close, as if afraid the rest of the team would hear him even though they were all asleep.

"…I think it was the spycrow."

"Bloody hell, kid!" Sniper laughed, though unease began to clutch his insides, "You really had me goin' there for a second!"

"I'm serious!" Scout hissed indignantly, not daring to go above a hoarse whisper, "Dead fuckin' serious!"

"Sorry kid, just a bit amused that yer scared of yer own handiwork," Sniper's mirth subsided and he leaned against the camper van door, "Speakin' of which, I've been meanin' ta ask ya. How'd ya get so good at sewin'? You don't stroike me as the type ta."

Pride temporarily clouded the Bostonian's restlessness. "Ya really think I did a good job?"

"Sure I do. Looks like ya all but crucified the real RED Spy himself! Shoes an' mask an' everythin'."

The color fell from Scout's face.

"Wot?" Sniper asked, noticing the sudden transformation.

"The only thing I took from the Spy was his jacket and shirt and shit. I didn't even touch his pants, let alone his dumb maskaclava-thing," Scout refused to meet Sniper's eyes.

"Quit tryin' ta fool me, Scout. I put that thing back up jus' this mornin' when it fell over an' I know wot I saw," Sniper began to raise his voice, he didn't have time for Scout's [ractica jokes, "It had two bleedn' legs an' looked jus' like the fuckin' Spy. Looked so much like'm it's jus' about the most disturbing thing I've ever seen!"

"I'm not fuckin' around! I only made it a torso! Medic even said when he helped me put the eyes an' mouth on it was the shittiest thing he'd ever laid eyes on!"

"Even if it was the spycrow, what the hell do ya think it's doin'? Tap dancin'?"

"Beats the hell outta me, I'm not a fuckin' ragdoll on a stick!"

"Ooh, a tap dancin' scarecrow, real bloody scary," Sniper said sarcastically, "Look, we can go check on the stupid thing if ya want, but if it's right where it's supposed ta be, you best leave me alone so I can get some shut eye. We can get rid of it tomorrow after battle,"

"Fine!" Scout snapped.

"Fine!" Sniper retreated inside his van to put on a coat and grab a flashlight out of his dresser drawer.

Over the chirp of crickets, Sniper and Scout listened for the scraping sound. The Australian wouldn't admit it, but he was just as freaked out as the Scout. Maybe even more.

Being naturally faster, Scout led Sniper in their trek to the corn field. Then suddenly, he stopped in his tracks.

"The scraping stopped," Scout whispered.

"Well, wot do ya- _Scout!_" Without warning, Scout bolted in the direction of the field. Sniper had no choice but to pursue lest he hurt himself.

Scout vaulted the fence and slipped into the corn stalks, disappearing with ease. Sniper, however, tripped over the fence in his urgency, tearing the knee of his pants open.

At least he stumbled into the small clearing where the spycrow was supposed to be and was relieved to see Scout had not gotten lost and arrived before he did, standing still with his shoulders slumped in disappointment.

"Learn ta wait up, will ya?" the sharpshooter panted.

"It's still here," Scout ignored the Sniper, a strange sort of smile etched its way onto his face as he bent over and hesitantly touched one of the spycrow's legs, "I didn't make these… I swear I didn't."

"Sure ya didn't," Sniper scoffed, but eased up on his tone when Scout turned to face him, "Maybe someone else added them on ta spook ya."

"Maybe…" Scout chuckled morosely as he thought of something, "Maybe Medic took the real Spy's legs and sewed them on… heh…"

Sniper clapped a hand on the man's back sympathetically.

"Mate, ya need ta get some sleep."

"I guess I do," Scout slowly turned around and returned to the corn as if in a dreamlike state. Sniper listened to the rustle of the stalks as the youngest BLU walked through them. Soon enough, the sound faded into the distance. Sniper turned to leave as well, casting a backward glance at the towering spycrow.

He raised his thumb and index finger, and then jerked his hand back as if firing a pistol.

"Move an inch and I'll sack ya," he said, knowing full well the inanimate spy couldn't hear him. Walking back to the corn, Sniper was sure to take his time stepping over the fence.

And had he looked down, he would have noticed foot prints left behind from a pair of custom-made Italian leather dress shoes.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning sun filtered in through a canvas of mist, melting away the chill of the night before.

Sniper woke up, sneezed, and promptly collapsed into bed once more. Getting up early for the first day of battle after sleeping in all weekend break was always the hardest. It wasn't until someone was once again banging on his camper door did he make an effort to get out of bed. As he made himself somewhat decent, Sniper wondered who it could be. He was usually the first one up, regardless of whether or not it was a Monday or not. He hadn't slept in, had he?

He opened the door to reveal Medic, another early riser.

"Guten morgen, Sniper," Medic greeted, "I trust you ah vell?"

"I'm okay, gettin' a bit of a cold, though," Sniper said, sniffing, "Wot brings ya to me van this mornin'?"

"I'm looking for zhe Scout. He shares zhe bunk across from mine, but vasn't zhere vhen I voke up," Medic said, "Do you have any idea of vhere he could be?"

Sniper briefly considered telling Medic about the spycrow, but decided against it.

"No clue," he replied, "Maybe he went out for an early mornin' run?"

"Maybe… Razher early of him, zhough," Medic agreed, "Vell, I vill be on my vay. If you do happen to spot him, please direct Scout to me. I'm, ah, concerned about his newfound nocturnal habits."

"Nocturnal habits?"

" I haven't seen him sleep a vink in so long. He's alvays up, making trips around zhe base and reading. Anyzhing to keep himself up. I fear it's affecting his performance in battle."

"Kid's probably drinkin' too much soda again."

"I hope zhat is zhe case. See you at breakfast?"

"Yeah, see ya."

* * *

Jarate sailed through the air and shattered against the opposite wall.

Sniper watched the piss spread over the floorboards for a few seconds, slouched below the window sill so that his counterpart could not shoot him while he scouted for a certain invisible intruder.

"Spook's playin' hard ta get today," he muttered, turning back to his rifle. By now, the RED Spy would have at least made an effort to cross the battlefield, but the saboteur seemed adamant about never going beyond the central control point for some odd reason.

Not that Sniper particularly minded, of course.

He'd have to be a right fool to complain about being at the top of his game. Victory seemed imminent with his support going almost completely uncontested, but one question seemed to nag at the back of his and the rest of his team's head.

Where the hell was Scout?

Sniper took a sip from his mug of coffee, swallowing uneasily. The more he thought about it, the more Scout didn't seem like himself last night. All of his youthful recklessness and ego seemed to have disappeared into the atmosphere along with whatever heat the farmland held before night time. Knowing Scout, the Bostonian might have done something with heavy consequences.

However whatever those consequences were, death obviously wasn't one of them. Not yet, at least. Otherwise he would have respawned by now, right?

Sniper batted away thoughts of Scout sprawled out somewhere in that damnable corn field slowly dying and continued to pick off RED's heaviest hitters as they tried in vain to reach the shelter of the control point.

"INCOMING!" Sniper had little time to duck and cover around the corner before a trio of grenades were launched up the stairs, detonating at the same time. The shock knocked over the shelf Sniper had crouched by.

"Do ya mind?!" Sniper shouted over the resounding blast, heaving the shelf off his person, "Now I've gotta find a new hiding spot!"

"Jus' keepin' ya on yer feet, mate!" Demoman's raucous laughter drew closer as Sniper slung his rifle over his shoulder, preparing to climb out on the roof in search of a new vantage point.

"Don't ya have a control point ta guard?" Sniper asked as Demoman staggered up the stairs.

"Oh come on, we've got this match in th' bag. Why not have a little fun ta pass th' dead time?" Demoman walked up to the window Sniper had been sniping from and held up his grenade launcher, "How much ya wanna bet I can launch a stick from 'ere ta smack dab on th' control point?"

Sniper watched his friend take his time aiming and stepped off the window sill leading to the rooftop.

"Ten bucks says ya can't," Sniper smirked.

"Watch an' weep then, mate," Demoman lined his sticky launcher with the hold in the roof over the point, squeezing the trigger. The sticky flew through the air, but fell short of the opening and clung to the exposed rafters of the shelter. "Ach, me aim was just a wee bit off! Lemme have one more try!"

"Hmm," Sniper rubbed his chin, just noticing he had forgotten to shave that morning, "I guess you can have another go… If we double the bet!"

Demoman clutched his chest as if wounded.

"Yer heartless, Mundy! Won't even let yer own best friend off th'hook withoot an exit fee!"

"Gotta get the pocket cash ta fix me turn signal _somewhere_," Sniper said, "Now let's see whatcha got."

"A right scrooge, ye are," Demoman grumbled and held up his grenade launcher again, taking careful aim.

This time the sticky bomb went _over_ the point.

"Fook it," Demoman turned away from the window, "I'm over this."

"Oh come on, mate," Sniper slung his arm over Demoman's shoulders, "Just' one more try? Forty bucks is hardly anythin' compared to the paychecks we're gonna get at the end of the month."

Demoman cast a suspicious look at Sniper.

"Thirty bucks fer one more try," he haggled.

"Thirty-five."

"Thirty."

"Thirty-four."

"Thirty or I'm ootta here."

"…Thirty-two?"

"Bah, alright," Demoman caved, "Only cause yer me mate, though."

"Atta boy!" Sniper pat the Scotsman on the back. Demoman returned to the window and shuffled back and forth, looking for just the right distance. He then licked his thumb and held it out the window to determine the direction of the wind, took a swig from his bottle, and readier his launcher. This was going to be the easiest thirty-two bucks Sniper ever made.

"Say, Sniper,"

"Hm?"

"I haven't seen Scoot on th' frontlines at all today. Have ya seen the lad lately?"

"Uh, no, can't say I have," Sniper lied through his teeth.

"Ye sure aboot that?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. What's with everyone asking _me_ where he's gone, anyways? How would _I_ know?"

"Aye, no need ta get defensive," Demoman squeezed the trigger and the sticky whistled through the air in a perfect arch, falling into the shelter and onto the control point, "Makes ya seem like ya know somethin'"

Sniper groaned.

"Sorry mate, didn't get much sleep last night."

"Don't worry aboot it," Demoman said, reloading his launcher, "Now, how 'boot that bet?"

"Hm? Oh yeah, right," Sniper felt around in his pockets and vest for his wallet, "Hey, I think I might need ta pay ya back later."

"Makin' bets we can't keep now, are we?" Demoman snickered.

"I needed the money, that's why I made the bet in the first place," Sniper half-heartedly punched Demoman on the shoulder.

"Heh, maybe if ya let me stop a' twenty you'd be twenty bucks richer instead o' thirty-two poorer," Demoman jeered, switching to his grenade launched and releasing a volley of explosives on REDs trying to rush the point.


	4. Chapter 4

It's hard to sleep when you feel like you're being watched.

The night had been windy, a sure sign of an approaching storm (one that the land so desperately needed). Sniper liked these nights, when the only sound was the low whistle of the wind; nature's very own seductive tune.

But tonight, the tune was sour, ominous.

Cold sweat beaded on Sniper's back under the sheets and he shivered, rolling over to face the camper door. It was an uncomfortable position, with his ankles crossed over one another and his long, thin arms slung over the side of the bed, but he could not move any more for fear of whatever unseen force lurked outside. There was a reason he had pulled the curtains over the windows of the camper, and that was to not be disturbed.

However, Sniper found himself very, very disturbed.

Something was outside. He wasn't sure who it was or what it was, but it was just outside the window, a dark silhouette shrouded by red curtains, and it was watching him.

He felt hunted and trapped, and as these feelings slowly registered in his restless mind, indignance took over.

_He_ was the hunter and _he_ was the trapper. Sixteen years in the outback tracking the byproducts of the world's most cutting-edge research and development centers was enough to assure his ego of that.

Quietly and cautiously, Sniper disentangled his feet from the vice of his sheets and slipped out of bed. He passed up putting on trousers to avoid making too much noise, opting to go straight for his kukri which lay on the pull-down table he had forgotten to put away hours earlier. Stealth was key at a time like this.

Breathing as quietly as he could, Sniper crept up beside the door, holding his knife close and feeling its icy blade grace his skin with a burning, tingling sensation. From here, he wasn't sure what to do next. Pull open the curtains? Kick open the door?

His stalker decided for him.

Sniper was caught completely by surprise when the shadow slammed into the door with reckless abandon, knocking him over and shaking the entire van.

"Wot the fuck?!" Sniper sputtered as he hit his head on the pull-down table and angrily pushed it out of the way, grabbing blindly for his jeans.

Pulling them on, Sniper elbowed the door open. If it was a hunt the wanker wanted, it was a hunt they'd get.

The Australian wasted no time putting on shoes and ran out into the night, looking this way and that. Stooping down, Sniper found footprints.

A Spy's footprints.

"Wot does that slimy RED dodger want now?" Sniper muttered as he followed the footprints around the farmhouse. Oddly enough, the prints did not lead across the battlefield back to the dark, silent RED base.

They led to the corn field.

"So the cat's outta the bag…" Sniper could've laughed at the simplicity of his realization. The RED Spy wanted some petty revenge for the awful patchwork caricature of him Scout had erected with his pricey suit. It'd only make sense that the best way to do so would be to scare the ever-loving shit out of the athlete. Why hadn't it been this obvious from the start?

Sniper walked into the corn field fearlessly, using his kukri to bat the stalks out of the way. His only real worry at the moment was that he should have brought some jarate to weed the French rat out. He also needed to figure out what he had done to Scout.

"Alright, ya filthy spook. The hoax's up. Where're ya keepin' our Scout?" in hindsight, Sniper shouldn't have said something so condescending, especially when his height proved to be a disadvantage.

The telltale rustle of something moving alerted the Sniper. As he listened, he realized it was running circles around him, whatever it was. It was surrounding him.

"L-Listen up, ya French freak!" Sniper said, on edge but adamant the unknown person was his battlefield nemesis, "Respawn doesn't come back on 'til eight. Ya wanna pick a fight? You'll be stuck in bloody limbo for the rest of the night!"

The sounds stopped, and Sniper was certain he'd successfully discouraged the Spy.

"That's right, Now are ya gonna play fair an' tell me where the Scout is or am I gonna ha-AUGH!" what Sniper didn't expect, however, was that his words did nothing but encourage his stalker who, as he realized as he was tackled from behind by something screaming like a murder of crows, was definitely _not_ the Spy.

Sniper snaked in the dirt against his attacker and threw it off his back, snatching his kukri off the dirt and stumbling to his feet. It had given him a nasty slice on his cheek on the way down, but he could tend to that later. He had bigger things to worry about.

"No way…" Sniper whispered as his opponent righted itself, boneless arms flapping uselessly and external wooden spine doing little to still its lolling head.

The nagging terror at the back of his mind had been right all alone.

The spycrow was alive.

Sniper had little more time to marvel before the spycrow charged again, a grotesque battle cry ripping through the strains of its sewn mouth, on legs that, Sniper realized with sickness pooling in his gut, could have only been torn off of one RED mercenary. No wonder the RED Spy wouldn't dare cross over to BLU territory during battle.

Sniper hastily stepped out of the spycrow's way, but a gloved hand latched onto his wrist and pulled him down once more. The cut on his cheek burned as raised dust mixed with his blood and he gritted his teeth, forcing his kukri through the spycrow's chest, the coat tearing and hay spilling out.

The tear did little to deter the spycrow and Sniper soon felt something dig into his side. Had the Scout _really_ been stupid enough to not frisk the Spy's coat for his hidden arsenal? The bloody balisong clutched in the spycrow's fingers confirmed his fears. Sniper yanked his kukri out of its chest, watching in horror as the wound mended itself in no time at all. The spycrow raised its blade above its head and Sniper lashed out with a swift kick to the spycrow's gut, hearing a satisfying snap as the wooden post holding it upright splintered in, causing the monster to crumple on the ground, paralyzed.

Sniper knew it would only be a matter of time before the spycrow healed itself and attacked him again. He got to his feet, wincing at the blood pouring out of his side and ran.

The wind had picked up exponentially, the withered corn flailing about haphazardly. That and the darkness of the night made it harder to navigate the field than usual. Sniper blinked rapidly as the dead stalks, slightly dampened by the night air, brushed just beneath his eyes.

Panic drove his actions, and he found himself taking off in a random direction, half-blinded. He wasn't sure if it was his movements causing the loud, dizzying buzz in his ears or his attacker pursuing him.

"Fuck fuck fuck," Sniper muttered the string of profanities in-tune to his steps as he barreled through the corn, looking for a way out. He was so turned around, every direction looked as if it could have been the way he came. He stepped on a small rock with his bare feet and hissed, staggering to paw it out of his foot before resuming his pace. He had to get back to the base. He had to get out.

Just when he thought he had at the very least lost the spycrow, something snatched at his ankle.

"Let go!" Sniper yelled louder than he should have, jerking his foot away. Whatever had grabbed him didn't resist, and dropped to the ground with a barely audible groan. Sniper spared a look over his shoulder and stopped. He knew whose hand it was even before he could discern the tightly wrapped bandages from the unusually pale hand that wore them.

"Scout?" Sniper pushed the towering stalks that obscured the mercenary's body out of the way. Scout lay in the dirt, sprawled out on his back. He wasn't looking in Sniper's direction. In fact, he wasn't really looking in any particular direction at all as his eyes, Sniper choked back sickness, had been sloppily replaced with buttons.

It was as if someone (or something) had tried to taxidermy him. His mouth had been sewn shut (which on any other day Sniper would have made a quip about it being a saving grace), crooked strands of hay poking out of the side of his mouth along with rivulets of blood. How he hadn't choked by now was a mystery. He could only manage shuddering whimpers, trying not to shake to violently for fear the glaring red slit in his stomach, which had only been sewn up half way, would spill his guts into the dirt. Hay protruded from this wound as well, as if it had been shoved into him to stem the bleeding instead of rendering him a human scarecrow. Sniper glanced around feverishly for any signs of movement aside from his own before kneeling down and shakily brushing a streak of dirt and sweat away from Scout's clammy forehead.

"Calm down, mate, it's just me!" Sniper said when Scout flinched from his touch, blood and small splinters of hay spurting out of his wound. Scout sputtered incoherently, lips straining against the stitches.

"Listen, I'm gonna get you out of here, okay? Don't worry," Sniper said, even though he knew Scout was in no way fit to be moved. The younger man's hands clenched and unclenched weakly and Sniper couldn't help but feel sorry for him. There were only two ways to get him out of the corn field that didn't involve leaving him to the mercy of the spycrow for any amount of time. He could either try to carry him out and risk disturbing his gash and killing him, or he could put the runner out of his misery then and there. Sniper uneasily adjusted his grip on his kukri as he considered the two bleak options. The weapon felt slick in his grip and he worried it would slip from his fingers and off his teammate on accident. Scout shivered and babbled pathetically, his face a mess of tear streaks, dried blood and snot. There was no saying how long he'd been lying here or how long it would be until he gradually bled out on his own.

That's when he heard it behind him. That godforsaken rustling again. The spycrow must have finally caught up to him. Sniper knew he had to make a decision and fast.

"I'm gonna get you out of here…" the bushman set down his kukri, carefully slid his hands under Scout and picked him up, trying to be as gentle as he possibly could with his heart racing and muscles itching to escape the brittle labyrinth of dead crops. Scout winced and he instantly realized just how bad an idea this was. He was going to try to go through with it anyways.

"We're gonna get out of here together…" he muttered reassuringly even though he could hardly hear his own voice over the white noise in his head. Scout was heavier than he looked and Sniper's side wound was acting up again in protest. It felt as if every step he took was straining it, tearing it wider and wider. Scout wasn't faring much better, and the Australian thought he was going to be sick as he thought about the youngest BLU's guts falling out.

The quicker the Sniper hobbled along, the closer the spycrow seemed to get. The assassin's vision began to sway as his side continued to bleed and found himself struggling to shift his gaze from the ground.

He was so glad he did when he did.

The corn had begun to thin out and he could actually see the farmhouse and fencing just beyond the last few stalks. It was from a different angle than he remembered entering, but there it was, nonetheless. Scout groaned and slightly curled into himself but did not protest when Sniper broke into a jog. They were almost there! They were almost-

A searing pain pierced Sniper's back and shattered his morale, taking him down. He fell forward and landed on Scout, eliciting a scream that was way too loud to have yielded to the thread sealing his mouth shut. The marksman didn't want to see the consequences of that scream and instead mistakenly looked in the other direction only to be greeted with a gaping red mess, blood and slivers of hay positively pouring out of the Scout's stomach. His pale, slimy intestines could were visible and Sniper held back bile. He couldn't stop a thin dribble slipping through his lips before he was grabbed by the back of the throat and yanked away.

No words could be heard over the spycrow's raucous cawing as Sniper was forced back step by step, a balisong held at his throat all the incentive he needed to back away from his dying teammate. He just couldn't take his eyes away from the shaking mess that was Scout, knowing most of the damage was his own damn fault. He saw these kinds of things happen all the time. Hell, he'd done similar things to the RED Spy upon catching him sneaking around but for some reason it was the fact that it was happening right here and right now so wholly horrified him that he couldn't help but finally vomit, wide eyed and sweating.

The same was going to be done to him, wasn't it?

He had ruined the mindless, cawing monster that held him captive's patchwork companion and now he was going to be the replacement.

Sniper slumped dejectedly in the spycrow's grasp, half hoping his weight along would break its grasp but as it had proved time and time again, luck was not on his side today.

In a fit of desperation, Sniper used the last of his strength to drive his elbow into the spycrow's midsection. The knife slid away from his neck and, just when he thought he was free, pain tore across him starting at his hip and ripping away at his shoulder, leaving a burning, bleeding slash behind. Sniper's knees jerked and buckled as he screamed. His vision was dotted with black spots.

As he miserably looked to the sky for an escape while his consciousness slipped through his sweaty fingers like sand, he could have sworn the spots became a flock of birds flying far, far away.


	5. Chapter 5

There's something strange about dying after ceasefire.

Respawn isn't turned off after battle per se, but it's set to hibernate, kind of. Anyone registered in the machine that dies during this hibernation is subject to being suspended in a strange limbo; trapped within its powerful database until it comes back on. Sniper had tried to sit through Engineer's generously detailed explanation of the process, but all he really got out of it was a minor existential crisis and an insomnia-induced headache. There was a reason why most people didn't talk about the science behind bringing people back to life again and again over stale coffee at four in the morning.

For some reason, this exchange was the first thing that returned to Sniper's blank mind as he felt himself wrenched from a void with all the qualities of trying to make sense of the strange color lingering in one's eyelids after looking at a light for too long to standing upright in the dizzyingly bright respawn room.

The tall mercenary staggered a bit, forgetting who and where he was for an instant, before regaining his balance.

"'s too bloody bright in here," Sniper said. As if to answer his plight, the lights temporarily blinked off causing Sniper to whip around in the dark, wary of some sort of attack before a familiar voice took him off edge.

"Better?" Scout asked, flicking the lights back on from his spot on the bench by the battered switch. Everything about him seemed newer, more alive, but there was a tiredness in his eyes that reminded Sniper of why they were here in the first place.

Muddled memories of red and more red splattering everywhere as he violently paid for accidentally killing the stuffed monster's brand new doll resurfaced from the flaky canvas that had been laid over them by respawn and Sniper winced at the painful recollections.

"Sort of," Sniper responded, his voice sounding a lot hoarser than he expected it to. The two men stood awkwardly, not wanting to bring up last night's events for fear of sending the other into a nightmarish run down memory lane.

In the end, it was Sniper who broke the ice, guilt overriding caution.

"Look mate, I'm sorry about last night. I shoulda believed you an' I shoulda been able to save-"

"Can we not mention dat part?" Scout unconsciously fastened his arm around his midsection, as if he had come down with a sudden case of seasickness, "I just… don't wanna think about dat part. Anythin' but that part."

"Right…" Sniper stepped back a bit to give the runner some room, "We've got to get rid of that thing."

"Well no shit, who knows what it's gonna try to do next?" Scout snapped before retreating into himself, "I don't want it to come back for me."

"No way in hell I'm gonna let it," Sniper said almost reflexively, "I know wot it can do now. It's not goin' ta get the drop on me again!"

"Heh. You say dat about the RED Spy, too," Scout said, "Den again, he isn't made 'a straw an' shit."

"Nope… might as well be, though, if you've ever seen him burn up close…" Sniper laughed nervously when Scout shot him a disgusted look and cleared his throat.

"So what do we do now?" Scout looked up at the pin-up calendar where Miss October stood in all her scantily-clad glory, leaning seductively on a keg of Blue Streak beer.

"Kill it, I suppose," Sniper said, "I've fought enough Spy's in me day. Wot's one more?"

"You think it can respawn?"

"Nah, it shouldn't. Even if it did, it'd wind up in RED's spawn, not ours, yeah?" Sniper walked over to his locker and opened it, "Then it'll be their problem."

The metal shutter on the side of the respawn room flew up as Soldier entered to be among the first to prepare for the day's battle. The American paused with the shutter hefted over his shoulder when he noticed there were already two other people in the room.

"Oh," he continued over to the resupply locker and began to load his rocket launcher, "Good morning, men. Good to see you already preparing for battle!"

"G'mornin'" Sniper said, not looking away from his selection of sniper rifles.

"Didn't see either of you at breakfast," Soldier observed as he cocked his shotgun. The shutter flew up again as Demoman and Spy entered, muttering their greetings.

"We…" Sniper realized what an uproar being murdered after hours would raise and his response died on his tongue. Harvest was in the middle of nowhere. There were about as many ways to die on accident as there were chicken with teeth. "Uh…"

"What, did you get shit-faced and fall off the roof or something?" Soldier chuckled at what was apparently a joke, "Come to think of it, I could use a drink right now. Haven't been to town since we were stationed here. What about you, kid?"

"Wasn't hungry," Scout answered quickly, adjusting his headset. He walked over to the lockers where Sniper was, casting the man a brief sideways glance as he opened his own locker.

Sniper shivered involuntarily at the look and shut his locker, as if trying to hide its contents.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Are you?" Scout replied, seemingly enraptured in choosing between two pistols.

"…No. Not really, no," Sniper said, knowing Scout's unspoken answer was the same. The ordeal hadn't traumatized him, but what it did do was unearth a feeling the Sniper had tried to bury under years of experience hunting the most dangerous game on the most dangerous continent. He had been terrified last night. Truly terrified and as the dizzy, red memories returned like awful aftertaste, the alien feeling brushed against his spine one more time.

The respawn room was now full of morning conversation. Sniper shook off the last of his postmortem funk and geared up for the day's fight.

* * *

A shot resounded through the battlefield as the RED Soldier plummeted to the ground face-first, a clean crimson hole in his helmet.

"You'll be needin' another use for that neck," Sniper muttered. It was the first shot he'd gotten all day. Either everyone was moving faster today, or he was moving slower. His bet was on the latter as he missed the enemy Engineer's cranium by a long shot. He felt like he hadn't slept in ages.

The Australian rubbed the back of his neck, the hairs standing on edge. The air was moist and the sky was overcast. It was going to rain soon.

Sniper held up his sniper rifle once more and, just as he was about to bore a hole in the RED Pyro's head, something heavy hit his back and ruined his aim. The bullet hit the wall behind the Pyro, sparing his life for now.

"Wot-" Sniper whipped around, one hand rubbing his back to see a pistol and butterfly knife at his feet.

"Set down your rifle. Please." Came a voice from somewhere in the room. It was the Spy.

"Wot the bloody hell do you want? Got a death wish?" Sniper growled, drawing the Spy's discarded arsenal closer to his person with his foot.

"You and I bozh know zhat is not zhe case," the RED Spy said, revealing himself leaning against a shelf of miscellaneous farming knick-knacks.

"Wot is it, then?"

"Set down your rifle and I will tell you. All zhe weapons I 'ave are at your feet," the RED held up his hands in surrender, "I am completely unarmed."

Sniper snorted and set down his rifle carefully, his fingers lingering beside it hesitantly before letting it be.

"Merci," Spy lit himself a cigarette, eyeing the Sniper out of the corner of his eye, "You want one?"

"Nah, trying to quit," Sniper replied.

"Interesting," Spy pocketed his lighter, the silver glinting in the afternoon sunlight, "I'm sure you are aware of zhe scarecrow your Scout made of me, non?"

"I'm aware of th' bloody thing, alright," Sniper said cautiously, unsure of how much he should mention about it, "Wot, do ya want yer jacket back?"

"Don't try to skirt around it, bleu. You and I bozh know it's alive," Spy exhaled a cloud of smoke, "You may even 'ave an idea as to what it did to me when I tried to get my coat back."

"So it really did take yer legs…"

"It didn't just take zhem. It sawed zhem off wizh my own balisong. It let me try to crawl to safety only to drag me back by my guts and sew buttons over my eyes!" Spy was almost yelling, his cigarette clenched tightly between his fingers as he spoke. "It violated me! It _'umiliated_ me!"

"You didn't really come all the way over here just to tell me that, did you?" Sniper asked, shifting uncomfortably. He probably could have gotten along just fine not knowing what ill fate had befallen his rival.

"Non, of course not," Spy suddenly calmed down, his shoulders slumping as he breathed out more smoke with a low whistle. Sniper found himself craving a smoke and desperately hoped the Frenchman would just leave already, if nothing else, so that his fingers would stop aching for the feeling of a cigarette between them.

"Wot do you want, then?"

"I want you and your team to do somezhing about it. It _is _your Scout's fault, after all," Spy said, moving away from the shelf, "And quickly, before it does somezhing worse zhan assaulting a man such as myself."

"Oh, wot could _possibly_ be worse than a poor, backstabbing rat like you gettin' wot's been comin' to ya from a bleedin' scarecrow?" Sniper asked sarcastically.

Spy gave him a hateful, indignant look before turning his attention to the cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

"Respawn."

"Wot.. Wot about it?"

"If you were a ragdoll caricature of a 'andsome rogue capable of some rational zhought and your prey managed to escape your grasp in zhe clutches of deazh, it is only natural you would turn your simpleminded frustrations to zhe zhing zhat allowed zhem to slip zhrough your grasp, non?"

Sniper's eyes widened in realization.

"It wouldn't-"

"Oh, but it would. And it will," the Spy said, "Whatever it really is, it 'as more planned for us zhan showy murders after 'ours. And it 'as somezhing to do wizh zhose buttons."

"But wot, though?" Sniper wondered.

"I 'ave no clue. Per'aps you should ask zhe Scout where he got zhem?" The Spy smirked darkly and was about to exit down the stairs when something hit him in the chest, causing him to stagger back. Both he and the Sniper had only seconds to register what it was before it beeped and exploded, turning the RED into a red mist.

"Oi, Sniper! You still up there mate?" Demoman called as he came running up the stairs.

"I-I'm still here! I'm fine!" Sniper overcame his temporary shock long enough to kick the Spy's gun and knife out of sight.

"Good ta hear! You stopped firin' a while ago an' I jus' knew somethin' was up," the Scotsman asked, appearing in the doorway where the enemy Spy once stood. "Guess I came in th' nick of time, ah?"

"Yeah…" Sniper was about to turn back to his rifle and resume firing when he was struck by an idea, "Hey, Demo, I-"

"Yeh?"

"I- Never mind, it's best I don't get ya involved," Sniper shook his head and held his rifle up, scanning the battlefield for a kill. Down below, the Heavy and Medic were patrolling the control point, the blue sparks coming from the doctor's backpack a grim warning to any RED that dare challenge the duo.

"C'mon, mate, you can tell me!" Demoman took a swig from his bottle and clapped a hand on the Sniper's shoulder, "Out with it, now!"

Sniper groaned.

"I just wanted to know if ya knew anythin' about black magic or whatever they're callin' it," he said, taking out the RED Demoman as he tried to get the drop on Heavy and Medic.

"Then you're asked th' right man, mate!" Demoman laughed, "I can guarantee ya nobody on this team knows more aboot ghosts an' ghouls than me!"

"Ace!"

"So wot do ya need ta know? Feelin' like repeatin' last year's headless horsemann incident?"

"Oh god no. Don't even joke about that. I wos wonderin' is you'd ever head'f an inanimate object comin' ta life. As in somethin' human-like… like a doll or a mannequin or a-"

"Or a scarecrow?" Demoman finished with a knowing smirk.

"Yeah… like a scarecrow," Sniper's shoulders slumped, "How'd you guess?"

"I'm not stupid an' I know magic at work when I see it. That raggedy ol' thing wos no good from th' start."

"Crikey, if ya knew it was evil from the start, why didn't you just get rid of it?"

"Donnae look good ta be burnin' a lad's scarecrow jus' 'cause I think it's haunted. 'f I've got even a wee flask o' scrumpy on me person, nobody's gonna listen to a thing I've got ta say!"

"If it'll help ya sleep easier, the bloody thing murdered Scout n' I yesterday. There's a spot of truth for ya."

Demoman's single eye widened.

"…Oh."

Sniper chuckled ruefully at the memory.

"Scout and I were gonna do somethin' about it after ceasefire. You wanna come?"

"Do ya even have ta ask? I love me a good beastie hunt!" Demoman stepped into the window to lay a sticky bomb trap along the entrances of the control point, only to take a bullet in the shoulder. "_Och!_"

"Careful, mate. The other Sniper's been givin' me a run for me money today," Sniper peeked over the sill to see if he could spot the RED. No such luck.

Demoman sucked in a breath, hissing as he did so, and clutched the red spreading across his shoulder.

"Jus' hit me up after battle, will ya?" The Scotsman managed a smile, getting back on his feet, "I'm gonna try to make it ta Medic. Take care o' that cowardly little dandy for me?"

"Will do, mate," Sniper flicked up his hat and grinned. "Will do."


	6. Chapter 6

Quitting smoking had been relatively easy for him. It wasn't exactly a habit he could nurture on the job, as it would compromise his location. Instead, he restricted his time to chain-smoking away sleepless nights, entertaining himself with watching the puffs of smoke disappear against the dark ceiling like phantoms. He didn't exactly look back on the memories fondly, and it seemed that only times of pressing anxiety did he really want to repeat those nights. If anything, it probably worsened his bouts of midnight restlessness.

And while he waited in the light evening drizzle as the pumpkin-orange sun slowly drew behind dusky purple rainclouds stained with grey, he would have loved nothing more than to smoke a whole pack of cigarettes.

Sniper shifted uncomfortably and shivered against the side of his van.

Hands shaking and boots tapping, he felt more anxious than he'd been in a long time. He was alone and it was almost dark. Two very bad things now that he knew he had a stalker who could overpower and kill him. Demoman said he needed to find something and Medic had pulled Scout aside for an impromptu checkup regarding the questionable contents of the BONK! he had been drinking almost religiously lately.

They had agreed to meet up by his van, but after that, the trio's agenda was ambiguous. They could spend more time trying to figure out just what the hell the spycrow really was and how Scout brought it into being, or they could throw all caution to the wind and hunt the bloody bastard ragdoll down.

By this point, Sniper was fine with either option as long as it didn't end in a slow, painful death.

"Yo, Dundee," Scout waved, jogging down from the farmhouse. A bandage had been slapped over his arm, which was slightly red from all the squirming he must have done. It was no big secret the BLU runner didn't like shots.

"It's _Mundy_," Sniper corrected, moving away from his can and feeling his damp vest and shirt peel away from his back with slight discomfort.

"Where's Demo?" Scout asked, rubbing his irritated arm.

"Said he had to get somethin'."

"An' I've got it," Demoman came up behind Scout, waving a rather simple red, leather-bound journal.

"Wot's that?"

"A field guide o' sorts," Demoman shrugged, "Thought it might be useful."

"Better be," Scout said, squeaking when he was punched in his bad arm.

"Got anythin' in there about the livin' inanimate?" Sniper asked.

"Only two, really. Did a little researchin' after I dug this ol' thing up," Demoman said as he opened the book up to a dog-eared page, keeping another marked with his thumb.

"Alright, wot're we dealin' with this Halloween?" Sniper craned his neck to look at the blotchy scrawl and rudimentary illustrations. Scout made a small quip about it all looking like drunken gibberish but was ignored.

"Our little scarecrow problems one o' these things. Either someone brought it ta life, which is unlikely," Demoman flipped to the other page, "or it's possessed by a restless spirit."

"Ya think the REDs might a' brought it ta life?" Scout asked.

"Like I said, highly unlikely- and blimey, this weather better not get any worse!" Demoman raised his voice over the roar of a sudden gust of wind, the drizzle picking up into a steady rainfall as the setting sun was fully eclipsed by storm clouds. "Sniper, can we move this into yer van before me book's ruined?"

"Sure," Sniper walked around the van and fished around in his pockets for his keys before finding them at last (as well as a peppermint wrapper and a crumpled receipt) and unlocking the camper door.

The other two mercenaries hurried into the cramped confines of the vehicle and Sniper hopped in after them, the wind helping him shut the door with more force than he intended.

The slam shook the van and goaded the three men into quickly taking seats; Sniper perched on a footstool by the door, Demoman on the counter and Scout on the bed.

"Boy, get yer feet off me bed, I just did the bloody laundry," Sniper said as Scout adjusted himself so that he was laying on his back, his muddy cleats getting grit on the foot of the bed.

"After how long, a year?" Scout joked, moving his feet off the bed, content with kicking off all the caked-on dirt into the carpet.

"Settle down, boyos. O'erwise we're not gonna have time ta plan before that scarecrow's up and about."

"Can we just blast it to pieces an' figure out everythin' else later?" Scout asked, crossing his arms as goosebumps began to dot his skin from the draft air.

"Wouldn't it make more sense ta figure out jus' wot we're up against instead 'f runnin' blindly into the storm like a gaggle of fools?" Demoman reasoned.

Scout looked to Sniper.

"Gotta agree with him, mate. He knows more about this kinda stuff than both of us," Sniper said.

"You guys are such a fuckin' bore," Scout crossed his arms once more and slumped into the bed.

"Wot were you sayin' about it bein' unlikely the REDs'd be able to bring it ta life?" Sniper asked, setting the conversation back on track.

"Oh yeh! It's almost bloody impossible. 'S far as I'm concerned this is the only book o' its kind and the only book that contains instructions on how to go about animatin' an object. The only one in plain English, at least," Demoman pat the journal, as if proud of the mystical and dark knowledge it held.

"So dat means it's possessed," Scout concluded.

"'S the only explanation I'm aware of," Demoman agreed, poring over the pages for a solution. "Ah-ha!"

Sniper and Scout got up and crowded over the book.

"Seems the only thing we've got ta do is destroy it completely an' we're safe!"

"It's seriously dat easy?" Scout asked, almost laughing, "Man, if dat was the case, you should'a just let me go out and shoot it back ta hell!"

"Hold on there, Scout. You probably didn't know this but I fought that thing last night and managed to get in a few good blows. It always mended itself good as new," Sniper caught Scout by the collar as he tried to run out the door.

"You serious? Dat's some fuckin' bullshit right dere…" Scout grumbled.

"Did it now? Hold on," Demoman scrutinized the pages of the guide once more, before nodding and smiling, "Ah, there we go. Says here all ya really got ta be sure ta destroy is the object that the spirit's inhabitin'. Tearin' it thread from thread ought ta do the trick."

"Den what're we waitin' for? Let's go!" Scout broke out of Sniper's grasp and headed out into the now pouring rain.

"That's some storm," Demoman said, setting down the journal and hefting his grenade launcher, "Yer armed, right?"

"Figured me sniper rifle won't do me much good so I'm just gonna go along wit' these," Sniper said, holding up his SMG and kukri.

"Then let's show that raggedy andy wretch a thing 'r two," Demoman grinned mischievously as he charged out into the rain. Sniper couldn't help but grin as he followed him out into the storm.

* * *

The rain was coming down hard, a seemingly endless torrent soaking any and everything in its path to the core of its very being. However, aside from its powerful and insistent patter on the back of the three BLU mercenaries who had run into the corn field with reckless abandon, it went largely unnoticed.

The dead, wet stalks squealed and snapped against the men as they scoured the field, never leaving ear shot from each other.

As the adrenaline wore off, however, the trio found themselves converging in a small clearing somewhere close to the farmhouse.

No one had found anything.

"It… isn't here?" Scout said, unsure of the words coming out of his mouth.

"I know I didn't see him. Didn't get attacked, either," Sniper said, wiping the rain off his glasses.

"If it isn't here, where is it?" Demoman asked, eyeing their surroundings with his one, watchful eye.

The RED Spy's words echoed in the Sniper's head and he abruptly straightened up.

"I know where it is," he said, "Come on!"

Without checking to see if they had made to follow him or not, Sniper turned and sprinted, elbowing and swatting at any corn stalk that dare get in his way. He found himself caught on the thigh-high fence once more and clumsily fell over the other side, the mud absorbing most of the force from the sudden fall. The Australian found himself greeted with a fresh set of leather shoes, Spy shoes, leading in the exact direction he knew they would lead.

The respawn room.

Sniper got up and resumed running, albeit at a much slower pace, allowing the Scout to catch up while the Demoman took his time getting over the fence.

Mind working as quick as his feet, Scout soon got the picture.

"It wouldn't…" he said, turning to Sniper who looked at the small, dark building.

"He already has," Sniper said, pointing at the shattered window.

"Oh fuck.." Scout said, walking over to the window and peering inside.

"I had a feelin' this place might be a target," Demoman said, walking over to the side of the building and manually unlocking the steel shutter with a BLU-issued key for emergency circumstances. "Come along, lads, we've got a scarecrow to kill."

The respawn room was fairly small already, but the dark drew the three men closer together as they fumbled about, moving as a collective in search of the light switch. To hell with subtlety, they had the spycrow cornered, wherever it was.

The lights flickered on and the mercenaries jumped as they heard a loud hiss coming from the back room where respawn's generator was housed, its window having also been broken. Demoman tried to unlock this door as well before being stuck with the grim realization that the key to this particular room was issued to the Engineer and only the Engineer. And with good reason.

It didn't seem to stop the spycrow, however.

Scout drew his bat and bashed the remaining glass of the window until he was pleased with the entrance he had made and vaulted himself inside.

"What're you guys waitin' for?" Scout asked, turning to the other two BLUs. "Windows can be replaced pretty easy you-"

The Bostonian didn't make a sound as a dark shadow dropped from the ceiling on top of him, effectively silencing him.

"Scout!" Sniper hopped in through the window and tackled the younger man's assailant off of him.

"I bloody knew it," the Australian hissed with a bitter smile as he found himself on top of the spycrow, who had resorted to cawing and thrashing wildly. "Somebody hurry up and help me kill this damn thing already!"

Demoman joined the fray, tearing at the monster's clothes, batting away its knife and ripping off its button eyes, casting them into a corner.

Then, something happened.

The spycrow went completely silent and stopped moving, its body more or less a mess of disheveled hay and scraps of cloth.

"Is it dead?" Scout asked curiously, walking over from the spot where he'd been attacked. "Just… Just like that?"

"Just like that… Heh," Demoman chuckled in relief, "'S no better than a real Spy! All surprises but no real fight! Ha!"

Demoman stood up and gave the motionless mess a good kick before grasping Sniper's hand and pulling him up onto his feet and into a hug, giving him a firm pat on the back.

"That was way too easy…" Sniper said with an uneasy smile as he let himself be hugged, finally reciprocating by clapping his friend on the back a few times himself.

And had any of the men paid just the slightest attention to the movement in the corners of their eyes, the following events could have been easily avoided.

Demoman had turned to check on the state of the respawn generator while Scout lectured Sniper on how shitty his high fives were, glad to find it in relatively good shape. All the spycrow had managed to do was tear off a panel and whittle away at the thick, exposed cables. Nothing their Engineer couldn't fix.

As the Scotsman assessed the minimal damage, he noticed something shift behind the generator.

"Wot…" Thinking it was a rat, the demolitions expert got on his hands and knees to peer under the generator only to be greeted with something that looked like a spider with a wide, flat abdomen jump at his face and cling to it. "_AUGH!"_

Sniper and Scout whipped around to see the Demoman stagger as he clawed at his face, screaming.

"Demo! Shit, you okay, man?" Scout was the first to rush to the man's aid only to be fiercely batted away.

"I'm fine, I jus' need to get these bloody things off o' my face! I- ARGHH," Demoman screamed again, collapsing to his knees as his clawing became more frantic. The more his hands seemed to be fighting to move away from his face, the more apparent it became that two terrifyingly familiar buttons were sewing themselves into his face.

"Those eyes…" Sniper said in dull shock, watching the struggle dumbly.

"Don't just sit there, you moron! Fuckin' help!" Scout shouted trying to steady the convulsing Demoman against the generator.

Then, as suddenly as the spycrow had become devoid of life, the black Scotsman went still.

"Is… Is he…?" Sniper began to ask if he was dead before catching movement in his right arm.

"Fuck, Scout!"

"Wha-" Scout had little time to respond before the Demoman slammed his fist into his face, sending him sliding back.

"Demoman!" Sniper yelled at the BLU now righting himself on his feet, catching a sinister glint off the buttons that covered his eyes, "Demo…?"

His friend abruptly turned his head in his direction, completely emotionless.

"I'm not your friend anymore," the voice that came out of Demoman's mouth was his, but at the same time completely alien.

"Wh-Who the hell are you, den?" Scout asked, putting up a brave front as he held his cheek with one hand, a thin trail of blood making its way down his chin.

"The father of your idiot employer, who else could I be?" the possessed mercenary said, looming over the Scout.

"Zepheniah Mann," Sniper almost whispered.

"I see you know my name at least," Zepheniah scoffed, turning his way, "Where are you from… Sniper?"

"A-Australia… sir," Sniper wasn't sure how polite he should be to a ghost that had possessed his best friend right before his eyes.

"Is it still a savage frontier as I remember?"

"…More or less, I guess."

"Hey, I'm still here!" Scout said indignantly, "An' I want to know what the hell you did with Demo!"

Zepheniah curled his lips into a disgusted sneer at the runner, an expression that seemed so out of place on the Demoman's face.

"I've replaced him for the time being," the sneer twisted into a demonic smile, "I'll leave when I've personally sealed both yours and the RED team's fates."

Sniper and Scout both struggled to find words.

"Wh-wha?" "You can't do that!"

"Oh, but I can. This was all my property, after all."

"But then your sons inherited it when you died."

"Yeah, so why don't you make like the dead and stay that way?" Scout said, earning a forceful kick to the stomach.

"Oi, leave him alone!" Sniper yelled, advancing towards the poltergeist. Zepheniah caught his shoulder, keeping him away and for a brief second, their eyes and the aggression lurking behind them met before Sniper through a punch at him, landing the hit with a satisfying crack.

"You savage bastard," Zepheniah growled, lashing out and striking Sniper with a swift uppercut. Allowed no time to recover, he was grabbed by his shoulders and driven into the possessed man's knee.

The Australian dropped to the ground coughing and swung his leg out, knocking Zepheniah off his feet. The poltergeist took this to his advantage and landed on top of Sniper, grabbing his throat and throttling him.

Sniper's vision was going fast as his head was repeatedly slammed on the ground and his lungs felt shriveled up, what little breath he had an uncomfortable pressure in his windpipe. All of the punches he threw seemed to miss their target by inches while his legs felt full of pins and needles as their circulation was cut off by another body.

"Sto…p…" Sniper croaked, reaching for the man's button eyes only for him to shirt his head out of the way and strengthen his grip on the sharpshooter's throat.

"For years, I've wandered this soil, watching it shape into nothing more than a waste of my fortune. And for what? A few tons of gravel? This is my chance to finally set to rest and I refuse to let any survivors compromise my plans, so. just._ die!_" Zepheniah hissed, wringing Sniper's neck with each word.

A shot rang out.

"Urk…?" Zepheniah looked down at the Sniper, dumbstruck as he held a hand to his chest before toppling over. Behind him was Scout who was holding a pistol with shaky hands. The poltergeist looked at him with dull shock, "You'd… You'd shoot your own teammate?"

"You're not Demoman," Scout said as he moved closer to the incapacitated Mann. Zepheniah coughed up blood and weakly spat some at the youngest BLU.

"You can't kill me," the dying man chuckled, "I can easily heal this body and kill both of you in no time."

Scout grimaced as he wiped the red off his cheek with his palm and then steadied his pistol, aiming it at the poltergeist's face. "Yeah? Watch me."

The Bostonian fired two shots. One for each button.

Zepheniah gave an unearthly scream as the buttons shattered, causing both Sniper and Scout to cover their ears and grit their teeth.

The room shook with an ominous, earsplitting hum as the fragments of the buttons disintegrated in a blast of pale green light.

Then, all was silent.

"T-Tavish? Mate?" Sniper asked hoarsely as he tried to ignore the nausea that washed over him as he pulled himself up to face the (hopefully) exorcised Scotsman. In front of him, the Demoman kneeled, lone eye staring blankly ahead.

"Hey…" Sniper reached out to gently shake his friend's shoulder only for him to fall flat on his face, dead.

"Oh fuck…" Sniper felt his sickness return as he slumped against the wall, his eyesight speckled with dizzying black and white spots.

"Fuck, Snipes, you okay?" Scout rushed to the Australian's side, helping him straighten himself against the wall.

"No… Demoman… did respawn pick him up?" Sniper asked, removing his aviators and rubbing at his eyes. Beads of sweat had gathered at his temples and he suddenly felt very feverish, every slight movement sending his vision swaying.

Scout looked over his shoulder at the Demoman's body just as it disappeared, safe in respawn's embrace.

"Yeah. Respawn's got him…"

"Beaut," Sniper smiled before he winced and moaned, his sight delving into an abyss deep within his own mind, trying to drown out the world.

"Sniper!" Scout's voice sounded muffled and far away, and Sniper tried and ultimately failed to utter a response. He found himself wondering if he was slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean as he slowly became more and more disconnected from his body and mind. There were a lot more black birds around than he'd seen in any picture book.

Soon, everything fizzled into static.


	7. Chapter 7

It became apparent that something bright and buzzing was hovering behind his closed eyelids.

He blinked a few times and it took him a while to realize he was lying down. Above him hung a single, dying light circled by frantic insects. Beside the light loomed a mounted medigun. He soon pieced together that he was in the infirmary.

Sitting up from the creaking, foldable cot he had been laid upon, Sniper looked around. The makeshift infirmary was crowded and cluttered, shelves of questionable content and medical tools strewn about. In the corner, Medic had set up a curtain to seclude his office from the rest of the room so he could work undisturbed.

The curtain had been clipped to the side, revealing the doctor was not there. He must have gone to bed by this hour, then.

To his left, something hit the ground and Sniper turned around to see a baseball roll by the side of his cot, having dropped from the Scout's slackened hand.

His only company had fallen asleep, positioned precariously low on a plastic chair that he must have pulled in from the back porch. Sniper turned over and kicked one leg out, lightly hitting Scout in the shin and waking him up. "Hey."

Scout snorted and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, "What?"

"Do ya happen to have the time?" Sniper yawned. Scout looked around the infirmary. There were no timepieces in sight besides a small analog clock on Medic's desk. Scout groaned as he pulled himself to his feet and walked over to read it, picking up his ball on the way.

"One twelve in the mornin'" the Bostonian called, blatantly disregarding that there were people asleep in the very next room.

"How long wos I out?"

"Not_ that_ long. Maybe two hours? I think it was eleven when I brought you in," Scout half-jogged back to his seat, "You're pretty heavy, by the way."

"Maybe you've just got no muscle. Did Demo respawn yet?"

"We won't know for sure for like, five more hours but I asked Engineer and he said it looks like he's online. Do you know how hard it was to come up with a good excuse for him bein' dead?"

"Ya haven't told anyone about the spycrow or that Zepheniah bloke?"

"I was kinda more concerned about makin' sure you and Demo didn't die on us for good. Should I have?"

"Nah, it'll just make everyone panic for no reason," Sniper looked at his feet, "Say… wot excuse did ya use for us?"

"Booze binge," Scout shrugged, "Engineer says to count him in next time."

Sniper snickered, running a hand through his hair. He stopped halfway when he thought of something.

"Hey, Scout?"

"Yeah?"

"Where'd you find those creepy buttons anyways?"

"Uh, you know dat attic-y room above the stairs? The one only I can reach without a ladder?"

"Oh, that place? Wot's up there?"

"Just a bunch a' old furniture an' hay. Except for dis one coat I found, it was mostly empty. Kinda boring, but a good place ta hide when you're playin' hide an' seek with the enemy Pyro."

"So that's how that bugger always gets lead right to me," Sniper shook his head. He could be pissed about that later. "Did ya get the buttons from the coat?"

"Yeah. I mean, it was either dat or one a' Medic's coats an' I'm not too fond a' havin' all my orpheuses sewn shut again."

"You mean orifices?"

"Dose too."

"Oh, good. You are avake," Medic said as he entered the infirmary, dressed in light blue bird-print pajamas.

"Evenin' Doc," Sniper did a lazy mock salute as the German walked across the room to the small refrigerator adorned with notes held in place with peculiar, body part-shaped magnets. The door opened with a cool hiss and Medic reached inside, withdrawing a nondescript, orange bottle of pills. "Do ya know how long I'm gonna be stuck in here?"

"You are clear to leave vhen you are feeling able. All of zhe injuries you sustained from your fall are more or less minor and do not require my assistance."

"My fall?" Sniper asked. Scout shot him a lock and he instantly got the idea. "Oh! Yeah, my fall."

Medic raised an eyebrow as he took a pill from the bottle and exchanged it for an empty glass.

"Are you suffering from some memory loss, Herr Sniper?"

"No, no, I just forgot for a sec is all," Sniper assured.

"Vell zhen… ja. You are free to return to your van. Good night," Medic downed the pill with a glass of tap water, set the glass on top of the fridge upside-down, and left.

Scout watched him go before turning back to Sniper with an apologetic half-smile.

"Sorry about dat. Guess I should a' told ya what I said you did exactly, huh?"

"It's fine," Sniper got off the cot with a grunt and yawned. "I'm gonna try to get some more shuteye before tomorrow… well I guess it's technically today's battle. See you in the mornin'?"

Scout waved his hand. "See ya."

Sniper crept through the main room where the team had set up their cots for the night, trying not to disturb anyone. He felt guilt curl in the pit of his stomach as he passed Demoman's empty bed, dimly lit by the dying embers in the fireplace. He had a lot of apologizing to do.

The door creaked slightly as Sniper opened it and he nervously looked behind him to see if he had woken anyone. Spy coughed and rolled over, but aside from him, everyone was dead still. The Australian shivered and gingerly closed the door behind him.

The rain had not let up in the least, and the trek to his van was borderline miserable. He unlocked the back door and stepped inside, not bothering to turn any lights on. Shivering, he began to undress, setting his wet clothing in the sink and rubbing the goosebumps on his arms and legs whenever he could to stay warm. He slung himself on the bed and winced when he landed on something hard, his ribs still smarting from the uppercut Zepheniah had floored him with. For a crotchety old ghost, he sure did know how to throw a punch.

Sniper rolled over, briefly pressing his back against the uncomfortably cold wall and window.

Demoman had left behind his journal.

Sniper picked up the plain little tome and flicked on the lamp on the counter closest to the bed. Getting a closer look at the leather-bound book, Sniper found he could trace a small, round imprint shaped like several intertwining vines with his finger.

Curious, he opened the book and was greeted with a smattering of inky, looping text, asymmetrical and jumbled. It was almost as if you had to be piss drunk just to read it.

Sniper couldn't help but smile at the journal's "illustrations" which were about as realistic and frightening as a five year old's art project. Able to decode about every other word, Sniper figured out that the writing was Demoman's own, and it was an encyclopedia-in-the-making of sorts. Many excerpts had been drawn from various named sources, a very small number of which Sniper had ever heard of. Many of the entries read like those of a diary, describing multiple occasions during which Demoman had encountered or tracked some ghoul or another. They sounded sort of exciting, if not wildly exaggerated.

Sniper flipped through to the last entry, not surprise to find it was about the spycrow. Only when he read that Demoman was also simply calling it a scarecrow did Sniper realize he was the only one Scout's stupid pet name for the monster had stuck to. He was almost embarrassed as he read on. It seemed as though Demoman had begun the article before he left to meet up with him and Scout last night, referencing the page regarding the animation of lifeless objects.

The BLU stared at the page a while before deciding on a whim to give the Demoman a hand. He got up to grab a pen, returned to bed, and began to write.


End file.
